Dream Remembering Techniques
by wild-sunshine
Summary: Shaun always remembers his dreams, all except one. Slash, oneshot.


Hi everyone! Another Des/Shaun oneshot. Still having fun with a new style. Ain't like my normal one, but I'm liking it :)

Enjoy!

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Shaun always remembers his dreams, but for the past month, he keeps waking up grabbing at the shreds of a dream, desperate to hold onto it for a moment longer but never able to remember anything at all. He knows only that it keeps happening, nearly every night for the past month, and this makes him feel certain that it's important, frustrated that it eludes him so completely.

When he finally shuts down his computer for the night and pushes his chair away from the desk, Desmond looks up from his laptop in surprise. "You actually going to sleep before two AM?" he asks, and Shaun frowns. It's a complete mystery as to how Desmond knows when Shaun usually gives up on work and goes to sleep, as he always goes to bed long before Shaun does, but he is frustratingly accurate.

"I'm not making any progress on the database," he says curtly, hoping the tone throws out enough of a wall to prevent Desmond from asking him why this was so. Shaun hasn't been able to concentrate all day, irritated after waking up as if suffering from amnesia, frustrated from the unexplained restlessness he'd been feeling all day, the coiled nervous energy that made him tense as Desmond hovered over his shoulder, reading the entries. "Unless you have some objection," he all-but snaps, because Desmond is looking at him, one eyebrow raised, and being the focal point of his attention brings back that nervous, tight energy and Shaun doesn't want to deal with whatever that is. Sometimes, he wonders if being so short with Desmond is unfair when Desmond did nothing to earn it, but Shaun feels inferior to the assassin who is so far ahead of him while traveling back, paradoxically making Shaun feel as if he has been left in the past, disconnected from the strides being made now. It's not Desmond's fault, of course it's not, but Shaun looks at him and sees everything he can't be, and contenting himself with doing only research is harder when Desmond is around.

"Whatever," Desmond turns back to his computer, and Shaun goes to leave. "You're a jerk when you're tired," Desmond mutters under his breath, and Shaun isn't sure whether he was supposed to overhear that or not, but it makes him clench his teeth and shut the door hard on the way out.

That night, Shaun dreams he is Leonardo Da Vinci. Instead of spending the day pouring over a computer, his canvas is just paper, and words flow across it with a fluidity that fascinates him. The difference is easy to feel; he forgets everything else, lets the words carry him away from the sunlit workshop to some place where there is no urgency to the information, no direness in the need to read them. When the door opens and a white-robed figure enters, he doesn't look up because this happens every day and he is on the verge of an idea that teases him with flickering fingers of ink, trailing at the edges of his subconscious. Arms wrap around him from behind, a kiss whispers across his neck, and the assassin murmurs nonsense in his ear, voice warm as his hands. He turns and lets the assassin pull him into his arms, as if showing him that this is where he belongs, as if ensuring, for both of them, that he will never think otherwise.

"You belong here," the assassin says, "come find me."

"I'm already here," he has never fit anywhere so perfectly before, as if they were designed for each other.

"Not yet. Not yet." The assassin says only that when he begs for an explanation. At some point, he realizes that this assassin is not Ezio, as he had expected him to be, but his lack of surprise only hurts him.

"Please," he pleads, holding onto this assassin, his assassin, tighter, "I want to stay here."

"You can't," the assassin apologizes, stroking a hand through his hair and kissing him gently, "you're not here yet."

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Shaun wakes up remembering.

He relives the dream over and over again as he wanders into the kitchen, can almost still feel the assassin's arms around him and wishes to still be there, wherever that really was. He sees nothing else all day, because every entry he reads and edits seems to be saying the same thing. _You're not here yet. You're not here yet. You're not here yet._He can't quite figure out why this seems to mean so much, to be such a weighted statement that it reverberates through his mind for hours.

Lucy has Desmond spend most of the day in the Animus, and in the quiet of the room, only the quiet blips from the computer and smattering of rain against the windowpanes are heard. It takes Shaun a full seven hours, but by five o'clock, he has confessed to himself that he wishes he could be as significant as Desmond, because forming a database doesn't feel important. He makes it out to be a lofty endeavor, but he knows that operating sans the storage of information would be far from unthinkable. It feels like a luxury, in any case. Maybe it's jealousy that makes him snap at Desmond whenever he comes near, like an instinct to keep him away, because he's clearly so much more than Shaun can be. It feels like an insult, that Desmond fell into this importance, while Shaun was yanked from normal society and shuffled into the organization, because he would have fallen into some oblivion without their protection.

After coming out of the animus, Desmond wanders off into another room and the girls eventually follow suit, leaving Shaun to stare at the computer screen, aware that he should be writing about the newly discovered route between cities and only able to think about the dream he finally remembered. He almost wishes he didn't know, because all it does is confuse him. Shaun hates confusion and hates frustration; it feels like an insult to his intelligence, like something has outsmarted him, something he can't touch, can't fight. He gives up at eleven, but instead of returning to his room, he wanders into the sitting-room-like area, where Desmond is sprawled across the couch watching a movie.

"Decided to join the living?" Desmond says, never looking over.

"Thought it might be worth experiencing," Shaun sits at the other end of the couch, attention flickering between the action movie and Desmond, who seems like he's somewhere far away. "How was the Animus?"

"That why you're here?" Desmond shakes his head, something like disappointment on his face, and before Shaun can protest, before he can puzzle out a way to explain that he said it because he couldn't think of anything else, he says, "almost died," in a flat, empty voice that sounds like the "almost" is a lie.

"You did?" Shaun isn't sure what to make of this; for the first time, he wonders what it's like for Desmond, experiencing someone else's life.

"Yeah." Desmond frowns, studies his hands, "pretty fucking scary, you know that? Even though it wasn't for real, not really." He sighs, looks at Shaun for a second, then away, like he can't see him anymore. "Sometimes, I don't want to do this anymore," he says, so quietly, Shaun isn't sure Desmond knows he said it aloud at all.

"What?" he asks, but Desmond shakes his head no, pretends like he never said anything at all.

Shaun just looks at him, and thinks _I've been in love with him since we met,_and the idea isn't as frightening as he knows it should be.

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The pattern continues for two weeks; Shaun keeps remembering his dreams and keeps ending up watching a movie with Desmond at night. Every evening, Shaun wants to ask Desmond what it actually feels like, becoming someone else, being so incredibly instrumental in their endeavor, but he knows that whatever he says, it'll come out wrong. It always does. Something about Desmond makes him nervous, and he doesn't care why, but he's since stopped trying to be nice. It's too hard.

Desmond is standing in front of the DVD player, putting last night's DVD back in its box; he was perfectly content to let it sit there overnight, while Shaun would have been the sort to put it back immediately. Shaun doesn't like admitting it, but he sort of envies Desmond, for being able to let little things slide and not be bothered by such slight imperfections. Desmond snaps the DVD box shut. He tosses it onto the shelf next to the TV; like everything around, it's divided into four sections. Rebecca's is filled with offbeat things; her refrigerator shelf houses grapples and starfruits and cactus fruits and her DVD shelf has independent films and obscure documentaries and foreign movies. Lucy's is sparse, like she's always only stopping by on her way through, even though she's been here just as long, and she has two classic movies here, a few popular CD's on the shelf across the room. Shaun stocks his refrigerator shelf with healthy things and the decidedly unhealthy things he picks up at the British grocery, usually on Fridays when he gives in and buys what catches his attention, and his DVD shelf is filled with mostly books; he feels juvenile and stranded in some sort of high school mindset when he compares himself to Desmond, because the assassin seems _cool,_and he hates that he can't describe him further without feeling ridiculously affectionate. It isn't that he has the newest movies and the most interesting assortment of food, it's that it's disorganized and he doesn't seem to mind.

"Hey," Desmond half turns back to him, "you wanna pick something?"

"Ran out of plotless action movies?" Shaun regrets his sharpness instantly, "but, um, yes. Sure." He speeds through a catalogue of movies in his mind, to find something Desmond might find remotely interesting. He points out a movie on his shelf, one of only four, about a casino robbery.

The first half hour goes by in silence; Shaun is ridiculously proud of himself for picking something that actually interests Desmond. Part of the reason he's come to regret the way he feels about Desmond is because he knows that Desmond would never be interested in him.

"You haven't asked what happened in the animus," Desmond says out of nowhere, and Shaun blinks at him. Desmond is sprawled across his half of the couch, fiddling with the zipper of his jacket.

"That would be because you are the living equivalent of Skinner's box." This earns him a blank look, and Shaun feels inexplicably embarrassed, until Desmond suddenly laughs.

"Did you really just call me a _box?" _

"I...." Shaun shrugged, turned back to the screen, "it's a little more complex than that, Desmond."

"Sure, sure." Desmond is quiet for a moment, then heaves a sofa pillow at him, "you gonna or not?"

"The box ordeal?"

"No, asking about the animus."

"Fine." Shaun exhales slowly, wonders if Desmond's intent is to destroy him with his own jealousy. It's too easy to believe that all this is Desmond's carefully orchestrated plan to destroy him from the inside out, but Shaun has a hard time believing this, only because he can't imagine Desmond would invest so much interest in him. "How was the animus today?"

"I didn't mean for you to ask, I just meant- well, whatever," Desmond makes a face of frustration, and Shaun has to wonder if he can ever do anything right by the assassin. "It was weird."

"Glitch?" Shaun guesses, and Desmond shakes his head like this is a ridiculous idea.

"How much d'you know about Ezio's life? Like, personal life?"

"Practically nothing," Shaun says, feels like this is a failure on his part, some chasm in his research. "It's common knowledge that he was something of a womanizer, but that's really all there is to be known."

"I knew that. But he wasn't," Desmond says, then pauses, "well, he was. But not really." Shaun bites back a sharp remark, and Desmond continues, "he liked Leonardo. A lot. So I was just wondering what happened in the end."

"But- that's impossible," Shaun manages to choke out, thinking of his dream and the way the assassin loved the artist, the way it seemed to look so right, but couldn't be, simply couldn't be. Desmond is almost frowning at him, and Shaun desperately doesn't want him to get the wrong idea. "I never found anything about them," he says carefully, and Desmond shrugs.

"Must'a kept it secret." He's studying the screen, and the film is at one of Shaun's favorite parts, where they're breaking into the safe. "Or whatever. I was just wondering."

Shaun just nods silently, trying to imagine this being true, finding it plausible, but still impossible, because not even two days ago he'd been thinking that him and Desmond was as unlikely as Ezio and Leonardo, but that had already happened, it was already part of history and had blended in with such a natural that now, he couldn't quite imagine it being otherwise.

"Think we could do that?" Desmond asks suddenly, and Shaun's head jerks up, eyes wide. He's on the verge of believing that the world isn't a horribly convoluted place when he realizes that Desmond is actually talking about the movie and breaking into a safe. Shaun's heart sinks.

"Maybe you should go try," he says curtly, standing, "but don't expect us to post bail for you." He leaves Desmond staring after him and tries for the rest of the night to forget how it felt to have hope.

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Rain is pounding the windows, darkening the early afternoon with its grayish, watery tint. Shaun chews on a pen, staring at the computer screen, where there are four windows open. Desmond came out of the animus saying something about a hideout at a church, but he didn't know which, and Shaun is determined to figure it out from the outside. It's hard to concentrate; Desmond also said that Ezio spent the day watching Leonardo work.

Shaun has long since given up on having any self control- he imagines the workshop filled to the brim with sunlight, the assassin just watching the artist like he could do it forever and always be perfectly content.

Right now, Desmond is staring at him from across the room, and it's with bitterness that Shaun reminds himself of what cannot happen.

It starts hailing, and the noise of the ice against the building drowns out all sound; Shaun doesn't hear Desmond until the assassin is right behind him.

"Find out yet?" Desmond asks, voice suddenly right in his ear, and SHaun almost flinches.

"Yes, and I'm going to keep it from you even though that would fatally hinder the mission. What do you think, Desmond?" he can't help it, but still hates himself for being so harsh with Desmond. It's completely uncalled for, of course, but he's been in love with Desmond for a month and every opportunity he can't use to confess it hurts and burns in a way he'd never admit.

Desmond scowls and says nothing. He studies the wall of pictures for a minute, arms crossed over his chest. Shaun does his best to ignore him, but Desmond is examining a drawing of Leonardo's workshop.

"I spent hours here," he says out of nowhere, tapping a finger on a chair in the picture, "Leonardo works at that easel a lot. He'll stay there for ages at a time."

"Dedicated," Shaun says; there's no venom in his voice and he's proud.

"Yeah." Desmond shoves his hands in his pockets, "He's really brilliant. Couldn't do anything without him." Shaun is absurdly jealous and trying to figure out how to tell Desmond to leave, but then, Desmond continues, "He's like Ezio's you."

"What?" SHaun understands this awkwardly worded remark, but he also doesn't, because he can't, because Desmond isn't anything Shaun wants him to be. He's everything Shaun wants, but not what Shaun wants him to be.

"Never mind." Desmond wanders off. Shaun wants to call him back, but can't think of anything to say.

The wind and rain and hail all stop by nightfall, and it's still and silent as Shaun watches Desmond turn on the DVD player. Sometimes, Shaun hates that this is what he lives for, because it's so little, it's nothing, spending evenings next to Desmond, mostly in silence, but mostly, he's just thankful he has something. Desmond falls onto the couch next to him, fiddling with the remote needlessly.

"You know that Bleeding Effect thing?" he finally asks, and Shaun just nods. He's learning to keep his sharpness in check, and not hurting Desmond makes him feel vulnerable. "Is it actually real?"

"Only in the most limited form," Shaun says, and Desmond blinks at him, because this is entirely unhelpful. "Just the Eagle Vision. Nothing else can transmit across. It'd be too affected by other influences."

"Oh," Desmond says, as if this is bad news," So I'm not at all Ezio."

"Right." The menu screen waits passively, but Desmond just turns the remote over and over in his hands.

"Oh," he says again, then looks at Shaun, eyes dark, "I thought-" he shakes his head, looks away, "I'd just like to keep something, y'know? But I thought it was real. Except it's not. Which is good, I guess." He leans back, frowning down at his hands in his lap.

"I've always wondered what being in the animus is like," Shaun says, entirely without meaning to. Desmond shrugs a shoulder.

"Not great. I mean, it's okay and all-" he shakes his head, "I don't know."

Watching him, Shaun suddenly remembers something else from his dream, the assassin's voice saying come find me, and then, then saying I'll help you remember what you never knew.

"I was just wondering that," Desmond says, as if he's waiting for Shaun to give the right response so they can get past this explanation. Shaun doesn't believe this is it, because Desmond never asks him anything unless he absolutely has to.

"Why?" he asks, and even though Desmond shrugs, he can tell something has changed. "Trying to pin something on the Bleeding Effect?" Maybe he'll never be able to stop this, because he wants to say other things but fears being too emotional, too close, too sentimental, and most of all, he fears being pushed away. Desmond can't do taht if SHaun distances himself first.

Desmond fixes him with those chocolate brown eyes, and Shaun wonders if he can ever get far away enough so he'll stop wanting him.

"Sometimes, I really want to kiss you," Desmond says, and Shaun can't breathe, can't think, not at all, "and I guess it's always been me wanting that." He looks away when Shaun says nothing. "Forget it," he mutters, and Shaun knows he never could, neither of them could.

"So why haven't you?" he asks, and Desmond doesn't really smile, but seems to try.

"Uh, because you'd probably bite me. 'S what happens when you try to kiss someone that hates you."

"That's not true," Shaun protests automatically, because he can't hate Desmond, he can't, there's really nothing to hate, because he even loves what irritates him just because it's Desmond.

"Or slapped. Or decked. Whatever, really," he smiles, but he's biting his lip, and Shaun has never seen him scared.

"You're an idiot, Desmond." Shaun figures he stopped logical thought a long time ago, because he leans in close and kisses Desmond. When Desmond kisses him back, it's like nothing of the last month ever happened, like Shaun never pushed him away and like they were never apart at all because feeling this, that would have been so terribly wrong.

When they break apart, Desmond doesn't let him go, dips his head to kiss Shaun's neck and mumble against his skin, "you're always mean to me. I never thought-"

"I don't mean it," Shaun breathes, huddling in close to him as Desmond still holds him, "I don't."

"Good." Desmond kisses him again, like this will be one of countless.

Shaun eventually falls asleep next to him, doesn't dream anything. When he wakes up at seven AM, Desmond is awake, watching Rebecca zip through TV channels and Desmond is still holding him. Desmond doesn't say anything, just kisses him awake and keeps watching the lightening-fast blend of shows, like this happens every morning, like it always will.

"You ever figure out which church it is?" Rebecca asks him, pausing for a nanosecond on a cooking show.

"Yeah." Shaun yawns, moves in closer to Desmond.

"You didn't tell me," Desmond frowns down at him, more like a grin anyways.

"Of course I did. You weren't listening. How can I be expected to convey any information to you if you don't listen?" Shaun says, and Desmond just laughs because he knows Shaun doesn't mean it, knows he can't, and being with him like this feels natural and familiar in a way Shaun knows, logically, that it can't.

He can't remember something that hasn't happened, he knows this with certainty, but it still feels like this has all been happening forever. It's so natural that it's already been integrated into everything he is, and maybe remembering isn't really calling back memories, anyways, maybe it's just reliving everything that's so much a part of him that he can't be anything without it.

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Hope everyone liked that!  
Please, please, please review! I love hearing what ya thought :)

Love ya,

Sunshine


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